Skyrim: Malefane, the Madness of Oblivion
by Sessamaru
Summary: Two years after the defeat of Ancano at the College of Winterhold, the High Elf dragonborn, Arumaril, continues his quest to slay Alduin and his kin. During an excavation in an unknown ruin, Arumaril encounters a new breed of Daedra Cultists. To his dismay, and that of Nirn, an ancient evil awakens and threatens the very fabric of existence.
1. I

**I  
**_**The Fallen Champion of Oblivion**_

Arumaril looked towards the night sky, gazing at moons as they hovered above the auroraborialis, curtains of blue and green lights. His shimmering green eyes did not blink as he allowed himself to bathe in the moonslight of Masser and Secunda, nor did he shiver in the chill night air of Skyrim's merciful Spring. His companions, fellow colleagues of the College of Winterhold, slept soundly. With him were J'zargo, a Khajiit mage learning the ways of Destruction magic; Brelyna Maryon, a female Dumner; and Onmund, a male Nord. Though they all began their time in the college of mages at the same time, Arumaril was the one who was destined to become Arch-Mage.

Arumaril was a strange case as a mage, for he didn't simply practice magic. He combined the ways of magic with the ways of the blade. In one hand, he could eviserate an enemy, and in the other, he could bring ruin to those who crossed his path. The Altmer was also quite older and experienced, as well as naturally talented. Upon gazing at him, many knew that Arumaril was destined for great, many things... for he was also _dovahkiin_, or simply _Dragonborn_ in the tongue of Men.

The Altmer simply sat against a boulder, which was upon a cliff overlooking some ruins. Against his shoulder rested a Daedric sword, a wicked scimitar that was quite hard to come by. Arumaril, however, knew of a way to find such a strong and wicked blade. It was during his time searching for the Augur of Daunlain that he had found a magical forge, and there he had found the secrets and rites of using the Conjuration school of magic. The ingrediants were equally as difficult to find, but during his travels, he had at last found them and used the Atronach Forge.

To his amazement, he blurted a name, for his dragon-blood had stirred at the sight of the magnificent weapon: _Inzahkrii_. He, himself, imbued the weapon with fearsome magics, unlocking its potential, and he also sharpened its fine edge. In his hands, the blade would become legendary, a weapon passed down from the generations, and eventually reach the status of "artifact" in the truest, most primordial sense.

Arumaril, himself, wore the robes of the Arch-Mage, to remember the promise he made to Tolfdir before departing the College. He would return as Arch-Mage, to preserve the teachings of the school and to protect it from the potential dangers... made evident by Ancano, a Thalmor wizard of once great power. Though an Altmer, Arumaril was odd in appearance. He had long black hair, rather than the pale blond, stark white, or faint brown. He even had facial hair, though not truy unusual but odd considering that most Altmer constantly shaved. He was a little more slight in appearance, though just as tall. Strangely, he fashioned warpaint over his eyes, using red paint to symbolize his own personal struggle and vendetta towards the Thalmor.

He appeared as if he were shedding bloody tears.

Arumaril broke his gaze from the night sky, reaching into his pack to retrieve a particular item: _Morokei_, an iron mask that once belonged to a lich; a Dragon Priest to be exact. The mask hummed with familiar power, and he rolled it around in his hand. "Ironic..." he murmured, reflecting upon that fateful battle. "Savos Aren, a powerful Arch-Mage, could not defeat you... and yet I, his pupil, was able to take revenge upon you. In the end, however, you helped me defeat Ancano." His tone was one full of bittersweet memories. It had been two years since his defeat of the mad wizard, who attempted to absorb the powers of the Eye.

With a sigh, he pushed the mask back into his pack and pulled the cowl of his robes over his head. He glanced back at his companions as he rose, replacing the Daedric sword into his weaponbelt. The Altmer gave a slight nod their way and began his voyage towards the ruins. Though not as nimble as the Bosmer cousins, not even as nimble as the Dumner, he still manage to climb down the cliff with practiced grace. He leaped down the final flight, kicking off the wall, and fell into a backwards roll. Arumaril then slid into a crouch, hand outstretched onto the ground to help halt his momentum and rose, turning towards the ruin.

The ruin itself was of a Nord tomb, locking away secrets of Skyrim's ancestors. It was long forgotten and covered in stone and moss, easily hidden from the eyes of travellers. However, it was the practiced eyes of Arumaril the Battlemancer that found it during his travels one year previously when he continued to master the Thu'um, or Voice. This ruin, he believed, may hold the secrets of how to defeat Alduin and his army of dragons.

The High Elf approached the ruin and sought an entrance. After an hour of studying the damage, as well as the superb Nord architecture, Arumaril found an entrance and went inside. The interior appeared intact and led far underground via staircase, and with soft, careful steps he went down. It didn't take long for him to enter the antechamber, which was surprisingly circular. It was alit with magical globes of light, a powerful enchantment that made sure it never winked out. He saw an ancient table, with long-neglected embalming tools and urns. However, there weren't any sarcophagi. In the middle of the long-table was a scrap of animal hide, with ancient characters written on it with an unknown red ink.

Arumaril approached the table carefully, not wanting to awaken the draugr that may reside within, and attempted to read the message. To his misfortune, it was written in Daedric, and despite his knowledge of the arcane and the Daedra, he still could not read the demonic language. With a wistful smile, he collected the message and stuffed it into a pouch on his belt. He would decipher it later when he returns to the College, Arumaril decided.

He then proceeded through the tomb, finding nothing along his way. To his surprise, the place wasn't as expansive as he believed, though it did keep going downward in an odd counter-clockwise spiral. Eventually, he came upon a straight and narrow corridor, which he had no other choice but to follow (though he could have turned back). The corridor, though immensely dark, gave way to a second antechamber that was dimly lit by torches; their flames burned with a green-and-black hue. Arumaril figured it to be an enchantment of some kind, but he knew of no enchantment that would cause green flames. At the far end of the antechamber were massive iron double-doors, with a sarcophagus at each side.

Arumaril gripped his blade, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up in all directions. He sensed danger, and he would be damned if it was going to surprise him. He entered the room warily, his steps steady and his feet properly positioned to allow him act swiftly with a balanced counter-attack. Though he seemed awkward as he moved into the chamber, it was not quite the case with the Battlemancer. It was eerily quiet within the antechamber, and Arumaril was beginning to suspect that his senses weren't monitoring the danger properly. When he made it half-way through, however, the sarcophagi exploded open and revealed a lich and a Draugr Deathlord. They were hideous things, with their skin stretched over bones, their rotten flesh a sickly green-grey color, and their sockets glowing with cold blue pinpoints of light.

The lich, wearing purple tattered robes underneath black-gold armor with glowing red runes, wielded a peculiar staff reminiscent to Arumaril's Daedric sword. The Draugr Deathlord, wearing black iron armor with a horned black iron helm, wielded an ebony greatsword which cackled like a bonfire. Arumaril narrowed his eyes in disgust, unsheathing his sword as a ghastly purple-black orb consumed his left hand.

"I hate Undead," he growled, his blood boiling with excitement. When the lich pointed the staff as Arumaril, a strange black globe shot his way. He felt the chill from it before it even even left the staff's unusual hand-like top, and he felt as though his vitality was been ripped from his very soul. Knowing the impending danger, and dove to the right, distancing himself from the Draugr Deathlord as it muttered a Thu'um. During his dive, he threw his spell at the lich, and upon reaching the ground, he fell into a roll and quickly got back up with a leap, narrowing dodging an eviserating swing from the fast-coming Draugr. Arumaril slid backwards, thinking of a spell to use against his opponent. He heard the faint opening of a portal as his Dremora Lord appeared, swiftly engaging the lich in combat with his accursed Greatsword of Flame.

As the Draugr prepared a second swing of its sword, Arumaril summoned a cloak of fire as he charged into the undead's deadly arc, bringing his sword up to bear in a reverse-grip to keep the greatsword from coming down, and slammed his open palm into the Draugr's face. An explosion occurred, throwing both the combatants back. Arumaril slid backwards as he landed, unharmed from his own fireball spell, though his gloves did reveal singing smoke. He smiled as he saw the Draugr tried to run, consumed in flame.

Arumaril charged after the Draugr, flipping the weapon back into the proper grip. However, the Draugr was no longer consumed by the effects of his spell and met his charge head on, swinging the greatsword in a wide arc. The High Elf's eyes widened and reflexively slid onto his knees and arching his back to avoid the hellish swing. Cocking his swordarm back, he thrusted forward as he passed the deadly arc, impaling the Draugr. Much to his surprise, however, the Draugr dropped its greatsword and gripped Arumaril's hand, and muttered a Thu'um he knew all too well.

_**Fus... Ro Dah!**_

Arumaril slid back across the ground, weaponless and with a dislocated shoulder. He cried out in pain until his head hit a wall, stunning him momentarily. His vision had blurred for a few seconds before fading to black. It felt like hours before he could see anything, but surprisingly it was only a few moments. The Draugr appeared to have removed his sword from its abdomen, wielding it as frost magicks circled around its opposite hand. Arumaril, aching, slowly rose and allowed himself to vomit, relieving some of the pain he felt.

"Razz'aezyl!" Arumaril called, unable to think of a spell. In answer, the Dremora appeared beside its master. "Guard me for a moment." He ordered, and the Daedra had no choice but to obey. The High Elf hid himself behind his guardian, reaching into a pouch for something to bite on. When he found nothing, he cursed under his breath. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, the lich pointing the staff at him. Using his left hand, he threw a spell of lightning at the undead, stunning it and quickly rammed his shoulder into the wall. A loud pop resonated in the room, which even rang above the din of swordplay. Arumaril yelped in pain, gripping the shoulder, trying hard to not lose consciousness from the firey-hot agony. Before he would allow himself to double over, he focused on the adrenaline pumping through his veins as he forced his reserves of magicka into both hands, forming two purple black orbs, and released them.

In his hands appeared two spectral swords, both Daedric in appearance. Arumaril charged towards the lich as it recovered, allowing the Dremora Lord to fend off against the Draugr. In a flurry, Arumaril worked the staff high into the air and spun to the side of the lich, where he inflicted two deep gashed on its side. Before he would dare to allow it to recover, he spun behind the undead and plunged both blades into the back of the necromantic creature, one sword ripping through its upper torso and the second through its throat. With a battle-hungry howl, he tore the spectral weapons to the side, nearly severing the lich into three pieces. He kicked it away and charged towards the Draugr.

The Dremora Lord's time was over on Nirn, and became a cloud of purple energies. The Draugr could not see through it, but by the time it dissipated, twin spectral blades came down in a powerful **X**-slash, utterly destroying the undead. Arumaril stood where he was, shaking from the rush of adrenaline that had acted as his make-shift pain-reliever. He let go of the two swords, which dissipated into nothingness as they fell. Waves of pain rolled up his right arm and he winced, kneeling. As he tried to regain control of himself, he noticed his sword off to the side. He retrieved the blade as he rose, turning back towards the doors that they were guarding.

He sighed, shaking his head as he lowered his cowl. "I'm glad that's over," he muttered, approaching the doors. Sheathing his weapon, he pulled the doors open. The room was alit with magelight, orbs of light that hovered here and there in a ritualistic manner. It was a wide, spaceous room with nearly nothing save for a large, closed Oblivion portal (reminiscent of black vines with dull-red veins and scarlet thorns) and a cabal of wizards.

"Now isn't this a pleasant surprise." Spoke the leader, who stood before the portal, his back to Arumaril and the rest of his cabal, his head looking over his shoulder. The man was obviously an Imperial, though bald. His eyes were a pale blue, reminiscent of the icy waters of Skyrim's northern shores. He wore a scarlet robe, like his followers. Overall, he looked like a traditional wizard, save for the Daedric mace at his belt, glowing with an unknown enchantment. "No matter," he added calmly, unfazed by the otherwise confused High Elf. "You're just in time to witness the reawakening of our Lord. _The_ Prince of Daedra."

Arumaril's confusion swiftly faded as he was now more aware of the new danger. Daedric worshipers were a strange bunch, but every so often a malevolent cult would come along to wreak havoc amongst the mortal plane of Nirn. "Which one?" He asked, already thinking of a spell to use against them. "Who are you?" Frost began to circulate around his hands.

"We are the followers of the one true Daedric Prince!" He announced, madness lacing his calm laugh. He said it in such a way that it should have been obvious. Unfortunately, Arumaril did not know who this _One true Daedric Prince_ was. It could be any one of them, to his knowledge, and that knowledge was limited due to the many books on the subject. "We call ourselves the _Sions of Malefane_, in honor of our Lord!"

In response, the cabal hailed Malefane, in homage of his greatness.

"I have not heard of this 'Malefane'," Arumaril replied, stepping a little closer inside.

"Of course you haven't!" The leader lashed out, anger glowing within the depths of his icy eyes. "He speaks to none other than his Chosen people! Us! The Sions! We have heard his voice, we have felt his presence! It is time for him to awaken, to bless us in his ever powerful presence!"

Many cheered in response, but Arumaril simply narrowed his eyes and cupped his hands, gathering the magicka necessary to release his spell. "I can't let you do that," the High Elf replied, his tone polite despite the ever growing gravity. Though he did not know who this Malefane was, he knew well enough to not allow the cabal to summon the entity, Daedric or not.

"Oh, but you can! Or, simply, you can't stop me. Us. No," he cackled. "For I, Augustus Tempus, have already said the rites necessary to open the portal. All it needs in a single spell... a spell I can cast faster than you can release yours!" Augustus laughed, openly mocking the Altmer.

As if to challenge the man, Arumaril released the spell. A whirlwind of ice flew towards the cabal and Augustus, and many scrambled to get away. Some died, instantly frozen, others lost all feeling in their legs, and Augustus threw himself to the side. Unfortunately, the powerful spell erased Arumaril's visibilty until the spell dissipated. As it did, a network of purple and black, reminiscent of a spiderweb, appeared between the two semi-archs of the portal. Though it was simply two-dimension, something three-dimension appeared through it. The entity was tall and wore an ancient armor of obsidian black and Hellish red, which the texture of it was like burnt flesh. The helm of Daedric, though far older and ominous, much like the armor. The entity was equipped with numerous Daedric weapons of nearly every sort; one-handed swords, two-handed swords, axes, warhammers, and maces... it was a walking weapon of mass destruction, or so Arumaril thought, for the presence of power that it wielded was astronomical, practically aweful.

It was even taller than Arumaril, a simple High Elf.

"Master! Lord Malefane, you've come to deliver us at last!" Augustus cried, crawling to the creature. Malefane gave him no heed, and simply stared at Arumaril. It then laughed, a sound that was too awful to belong to the throat of any mortal. It was as though it were choking on its own lifeblood, gurgling and maddening. It outstretched a hand, its palm glowing with a small orange orb. It released the pebble-sized globe, and near-instantaneously hit Arumaril. The impact was devastating, for the small globe released a concentrated explosion that was akin to a firestorm, throwing the warrior-mage several yards back and consumed in flame.

Before Arumaril gave himself to blackness, he felt the world around him shake, shudder, and begin to fall apart. Then, he knew no more.


	2. II

**II  
**_**A Merchant named Sovarys Ovran**_

Rosarek Shayden traversed the cobblestone roads of Solitude. He was a slender Dunmer, with a long shock of silver-white hair, almond-shaped eyes of glowing crimson, and faded ashy skin. In all respects, he was handsome, with a thin nose, high cheekbones, and a strong jaw. He was slightly shorter than the average Nord, as well. Nevertheless, one could not quite escape the ever-consuming glare of pure malice.

The assassin, wearing the guise of a wealthy merchant, played the part with his chin held high and his eyes looking down on all those who thought they could swindle him out of a deal. It was a simple act, something any hate-filled murderer could pull off with the right motivation. Rosarek, himself, found the guise ironic, since he came from a family of Dunmer merchants, but only to become a member of the Dark Brotherhood instead.

He followed the road to the Blue Palace, wherein lay his prey. It was, of course, broad daylight, but that little detail did not bother Rosarek. In fact, he simply walked along the cobbled street until he approached the guard. "Halt!" The guard spoke, wearing the colors of Solitude. "Who are you and what is your purpose here at the Blue Palace?" He ordered more than asked, his thick Nordic accent making him sound as though he drank too much mead.

"I am Sovarys Ovran of Mournhold," Rosarek stated briefly, his Morrowind accent thick. "I'm a merchant and I would like to speak to the Jarl of this region about buying a home here in Solitude and to be allowed to trade my goods in Haafingar."

There was a brief moment of silence, the guard looking Rosarek up and down as if to pass judgement on him. It was quite important to keep assassins and thieves out of the Blue Palace, for Jarl Elisif, soon to be announced High Queen should the moot ever meet, was an important political aspect of all Skyrim. "Very well... but I'll be keeping my eye on you, elf." The guard replied.

"Oh, racism," Rosarek sarcastically remarked, glaring at the guard. "That's been very becoming of Skyrim these past several years."

The guard stood still, shifting here and there when he thought the Dark Elf wasn't looking. Rosarek allowed himself a brief smile when he continued towards the doorway of the castle, reveling in his small victory. He knew his remark would distract the guard with guilt, and if all went according to plan, the guard would be blamed for the entire affair. As he entered the castle, he noted the fine stonework of the ancient Nords and the elegant tapestries that hung here and there. It was quite beautiful, but Rosarek felt only disdain for its beauty. He wandered up the stairway, approaching the second floor in a matter of seconds. There, he was greeted by two guards and six Thanes. Jarl Elisif, herself, sat upon her throne with her court mage standing beside her.

"What is your business with Jarl Elisif? Address yourself!" One of the guards commanded, removing his helm. He was a Nord with long blond hair, some stubble, icy blue eyes, and strong features. He had a long scar, presumably from a sword, that ran from above his left brow, down to his chin, in a perfectly vertical manner. At his belt was a steel sword whilst on his back was the black and red shield of Solitude with the image of a wolf's head.

Rosarek gave a contemptuous sneer as he said "I am Sovarys Ovran of Mournhold. I traveled here from Morrowind to set shop here in Solitude. I am here to purchase a house and do business with your Jarl."

The matter of fact statement did not steal the guard's bluster. "You obviously don't have an appointment, nor have you sent word ahead of time to Jarl Elisif about your desire to do business here in Haafingar. I am afraid I'll have to ask you to leave."

"That isn't necessary, Kierkegaard," Jarl Elisif said aloud, her tone casual. She stared hard at the assassin, judging his character. "I'll allow this outlander counsel, though I believe his manners need to improve within my presence."

Kierkegaard was about to protest before she brought up her slender hand. "Enough, Kierkegaard. Now allow him to move forward." She snapped, having little patience with the guard. With much reluctance, the guard moved away and allowed the Dunmer passage. The Nord was not pleased, but he knew well to obey the Jarl. Nevertheless, he placed his hand on his sword when he saw Rosarek smile.

The assassin stood before the Jarl at a respectable distance, looking at all of Elisif's Thanes, her servants, and her friends. When he finished his quick, casual assessment, he bowed before the matriarch. "Thank you for allowing me counsel, Jarl Elisif." He told her in the most polite manner as possible.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Sovarys Ovran," Elisif the Fair replied curtly. "I am pleased that you wish to live in my humble kingdom."

"May we discuss the matters of my being here?" He asked, keeping his tone light and polite as to not draw further suspicion from the woman.

"We shall, but as my guard had said, you will need an appointment." Elisif remarked. "Since I am rather busy, perhaps we may discuss this over dinner? You can be my honored guest and I will have a servant prepare your chambers."

Rosarek did well to hide his smirk, and as such, he wore a mildly disappointed expression. "Ah, but I was not planning to stay in the Blue Palace," Rosarek moped, looking away from Elisif as though he were a child having to wait for desert. "Is there some other way that we can discuss this now?" He asked. The question rocked Jarl Elisif back into her throne, as though she had misjudged "Sovarys". But, her eyes hardened and her jaw clenched tightly as memories of her dead husband came rushing into her, giving her newfound strength.

"I apologize," she began, her words rough with impatience. "But this matter will have to wait. If you wish to discuss business, at least be my guest within my castle. Otherwise, return tomorrow at midday."

Rosarek nodded. "I suppose I don't have much of a choice in the matter..." he mumbled. "I shall accept your generous offer, m'lady Elisif." The Dunmer bowed low, taking slow steps back.

Jarl Elisif attempted to hide her smile of triumph, but Rosarek caught it just before it faded into a grief-ridden scowl. Rosarek knew the rules of political intrigue far better than most, and he knew he was playing on a knife's edge. Unfortunately, he knew her plot quite well. There were steps to it, all shrouded in pretenses. However, Elisif was no master of lies; simply a master of power. Rosarek made a mental note of it as he studied the thanes and servants.

Elisif called for a maid, who came running forth and bowed low. As she rose, the Jarl ordered her to prepare a room for her foreign guest and the maid left post-haste. "Sovarys Ovran," she said in a mild, patient tone. "Since you're a guest within my home, I shall assign security for you in case of an emergency." Rosarek smiled, mostly out of mischief, at the assignment of guards.

"You are most gracious, Lady Elisif," Rosarek replied. "But is it truly necessary?"

She nodded. "Unfortunately," she replied. "For there has been word of Stormcloak assassins roaming Haafingar, and they are not particularly fond of me nor the Dunmer." She explained, though Rosarek knew it was a lie. She purposely lied as to alert those around her of her plan, though she did not expect "Sovarys" to have any actual information of the civil war nor any knowledge of Ulfric Stormcloak. Rosarek, however, had lived in Skyrim long enough to know that Ulfric, though not fond of Dunmer, would never have Elisif killed by mere shadows. He knew much more than he would let on, and so he played her game by playing the ignorant foreigner.

"Ah, I see," Rosarek replied. "I understand. Thank you, m'lady."

Elisif nodded. "Kierkegaard," she called. "Guide Sovarys to the guest chamber, if you please." She demanded in the pretense of courtesy. Kierkegaard nodded and approached Rosarek.

"Come with me, _merchant_," the guard growled, placing a hand on the Dunmer's shoulder. If it weren't for the sake of the contract, Rosarek would've slain Kierkegaard where he stood without a moment's hesitation. However, Rosarek accepted the arm despite his hand grasping for a sword that wasn't there. _I'll kill him whenever I return to Solitude._ He thought to himself, making a mental note.

"Thank you," Rosarek replied in a tone that truly offended the guard (though it did bring a smile to Elisif's lips). Kierkegaard winced and struggled to keep himself under control. Like Rosarek, Kierkegaard made a mental note to kill the Dunmer whenever he wasn't under protection of Jarl Elisif. The two left the Jarl and her thanes, who were then speaking of other political matters that did not matter to the lowly assassin. The two wandered around for some time before finding the maid who had just finished preparing Rosarek's chamber for the night. After a moment's exchange, Kierkegaard and Rosarek were left in the room.

Alone.

"You best watch your back, Dunmer," Kierkegaard warned, glowering at Rosarek. "Otherwise, I will kill you where you stand."

"You _dogs_ are all the same..." Rosarek replied. "You do nothing but bark when you should go ahead and bite."

Kierkegaard's eyes narrowed, becoming slivers of blue. The very look reminded Rosarek of two daggers gleaming in the pale moonslight. "Rabid _dogs_ bite whenever they wish, too... and they are forced to be put down."

"See? You're barking again," Rosarek sneered. "Are you afraid to strike me down?"

Kierkegaard placed his hand upon his blade, drawing the blade half-way before the door opened. In came the Falk Firebeard, a Nord with fiery red hair and beard. His dark eyes analyzed the room and he placed a hand onto Kierkegaard's shoulder. "What are you doing, Kierkegaard?" He demanded.

Kierkegaard glowered at the smiling Dunmer. "What does it look like? I'm showing him how to use a sword."

"By attempting to cut him in two?" Falk asked rhetorically. "He'll never live to see how it was done."

"Perhaps in Sovngarde." Kierkegaard murmured, slamming the sword back into its scabbard.

"Now be off and guard Elisif!" Falk commanded. Kierkegaard attempted to glare at the Nord, who was a head taller than he, but could not meet the penetrating gaze of Falk. Without a word, the guard left to attend his duties. Falk then turned to Rosarek, eying the man up and down. "It's like putting hungry wolves into the same cage," he murmured, referring to Elisif's choice in who to guide the Dunmer to his chambers. Falk sighed and attempted to look friendly at the Dark Elf, whose expression was neutral. "I am sorry, friend," he went on. "Please behave yourself. Though you're a guest in the Blue Palace, you should mind your manners or we will have to persecute you under our law."

Rosarek nodded, studying the man. Falk Firebeard intrigued him to some degree, and wondered if he was just any ordinary steward. "Thank you," Rosarek said with a light bow. "I apologize for my behavior."

"That's good," Falk replied in kind. "Now please don't cause anymore trouble. You may roam our city if you like, but be sure you are in the company of the two guards we have posted outside. Dinner will be at the Eighth bell." Falk nodded, turned, and eventually left the room.

"Plenty of time," Rosarek murmured, glancing at the window behind him. It over-looked the sea and had a balcony, something the assassin found quite convenient. He paced the room, to and fro, until at last he decided to nap. He would need all the energy possible to out-wit the Jarl and her guards. As he lay upon the bed, he found himself looking at the stone ceiling. Though he didn't know why, he thought he saw the face of a particular High Elf who had bested him in a fight.

Fury welled deep within him as he remembered how his victory was swiftly stolen from him by his prey's raw luck. Or was it fate? He wondered. His mood became as black as pitch, darker than Sithis himself!

"I will kill him..." he vowed. "One day, when he is weak and overcome with fatigue, he will die from a death far worse than the humiliation he put me through!"

And then, he slept...


	3. III

**III  
**_**Silence**_

Arumaril awoke with a start, covered in bandages and sweat. Every fiber of his being cried out in agony at the sudden jolt of his startled waking, and he couldn't bite back to howl of pain that escape his throat. Or, at least, he couldn't cry out in pain for no sound came forth. Thus, he simply screamed a silent scream. The Altmer hugged himself as he cried that silent cry, attempting to hold his body together through fear of falling apart. As the pain faded, he stood deathly still, too afraid to let go of himself.

After a while, he finally let himself go with slow, agonizing motion. The pain was still present, but its magnitude lessened significantly. He could bear it, he decided. Arumaril looked around the chamber he resided in and sighed. It was a familiar place, lit faintly by candles and by the soft magelight from the other side of the semi-circular wall. It was the Arch-Mage's chambers in Winterhold, a homely place with many scents of the many herbs that were present in barrels, on shelves, and on the alchemy table. The smell of the chamber relaxed him and he slowly lay back upon his bed, staring up at the stone ceiling. He let the familiarity possess him, to give himself a sense of security.

"Ah, so you are awake, J'zargo sees," spoke a Khajiit cast in shadows. He was sitting on a chair, reading a book, though his nighteyes, glowing mystically, were upon Arumaril. The sudden voice of the cat-man made the High Elf look his way on raw instinct, the sudden motion sending waves of pain to his head. Arumaril bit back the pain on sheer effort, not allowing himself to show how much pain he was truly in. "You are now all better, yes?" J'zargo asked hopefully.

Arumaril shook his head as slowly as he could.

"Colette said as much," J'zargo replied, his ears flattening upon his head with disappointment and a deep frown emphasizing his sorrow. "You are lucky, _Arch-Mage_, that J'zargo and friends came to help. Otherwise, you would be dead and the College would be without a new Arch-Mage." He added with scorn, obviously upset that Arumaril ventured off without him or the rest of his colleagues.

Arumaril simply frowned in sympathy, not denying that he had abandoned them for his own selfish reasons. Regardless, he was glad it was him who had went alone and not J'zargo, Brelyna, and Onmund. What he had found in the ruin was something of great and terrible power, and had it not been him, then the other three would be dead. He would not allow himself to make the same mistake as his predecessor had those many years ago in Labrynthian, and he was quite proud that he did not.

"Can Arumaril speak?" J'zargo asked, concerned. The High Elf shook his head again in the slowest possible motions. The Khajiit nodded. "J'zargo shall return shortly, Arch-Mage. J'zargo must tell the College that Arch-Mage Arumaril is awake." And just like that, J'zargo left. In a short moment, the door to Arumaril's chambers opened and closed in quick succession, letting the Altmer know that his Khajiit friend had indeed left. Arumaril's eyes burned with agitation and rage, one aimed at J'zargo for calling him "Arch-Mage" despite his constant aversion to the title, and the other aimed at his own folly and uselessness. The High Elf brooded in the dim chamber, seething in raw fury.

_I should have went more prepared!_ he brooded, eyes narrowing and muscles tightening involuntarily. He allowed himself to let out a silent cry as the pain built up and coursed throughout his body, his vision blurring and blackening. In time, it faded away, and as it did, he thought to himself some more. _If only I could speak... if only I could move without this paralyzing pain._

Before he could continue the thought, he heard the chamber door burst opened, followed by a cacophony of concern, scorn, and idle conversation. It eventually rose to an unbearable din, something that nearly destroyed his patience. He could hear Colette scold them, snapping at them to keep their voices down. Arumaril respected Colette and her expertise of Restoration magic, and he was forever grateful for her presence within the College. As they rounded the semi-circular wall from both sides, they huddled around Arumaril. To them, he looked as though he were mummified, only his lips and his left eye visible to them. His hair appeared here and there at random spots, and some of his colleagues chuckled; particularly Arniel Gane, Phinis Gestor, and Sergius Turrianus. He attempted to glare at them, but the quick shock of pain stopped him.

"Now stop giggling like little girls, you three," Colette Marence scolded. She was an average sized Breton with light brown hair and some elven features, such as her high cheekbones and slenderness. Her skin was tan, her eyes amber, and her lips a lighter shade of red. Like all Bretons, she looked relatively human, minus the almond-shaped eyes and naturally slender build. She was middle-aged, but possessed a charm of attractiveness that would intrigue some who knew nothing about her.

Colette continued to glare at the three wizards until the weight of her gaze silenced them. She turned to Arumaril, glaring at him. "Not to disrespect you or anything, Arry," she began, her tone severe. "But you're a complete idiot! You nearly broke every bone in your body! How in Oblivion could you destroy something that was already destroyed, while inside, and survive? If it weren't for Stendarr watching over you, you would be gone from us. What have you to say for yourself?" She arched a brow knowingly, and Arumaril simply glowered at her, unable to say a thing.

"As I thought," she concluded. "You lost your voice."

The room was filled with astonished gasps at the news, and Brelyna was the first to speak as they soon recovered from the shock. "Lost his voice? What do you mean?" She asked, eyes narrowed.

"Exactly as I said," Colette replied, a teasing smile on her face as she began to undress the bandages that ensnared Arumaril. The High Elf stifled another silent scream, attempting to remain stoic throughout the process. "You said you found him in rubble, yes?" She asked, not looking at Brelyna nor the rest of the mages. "His windpipe was crushed. It is beyond my skill to fully restore him. In fact, I don't think he'll ever recover from the damages." Colette continued, shaking her head. As the bandages came unwound, the less experienced mages turned away in horror. Arumaril's entire body was battered and swollen; his right eye was a black puffiness that rendered him blind and his joints at the elbow appeared to be fused together, his biceps and triceps a single mass of swollen muscle. His torso was covered in scars and scabs, as well as being swollen at random places to the point of looking like spider bites. Were it not for Colette, he would appear far worse.

"By the Eight!" Phinis gasped. "He looks far more handsome without the stupid warpaint!" Arumaril chortled against his will at Phinis's jest, but winced at each spasm of laughter. The rest of the mages did not take part of the joke, but simply stared at the broken and battered High Elf in pity.

"Will he ever be able to cast spells again?" Brelyna asked, covering her mouth with her hand, her face pale.

"I'm not sure... I do know that he'll never walk again. Not unless you can find a powerful healer. The best we can do is treat him with medicine... but even that will do little to restore the use of his legs."

Arumaril glowered the best he could, clenching his swollen hands and digging his nails into his palm hard enough to draw blood. _The gods are truly a fickle bunch..._ he thought somberly, rage welling deep within him. _They wanted someone to slay Alduin, and yet they cripple their so called 'Savior'? What a cruel joke! _

"But surely you must know someone powerful enough to help him!" Brelyna pleaded.

Onmund and J'zargo hovered over Arumaril, analyzing him over. As they finished, they both looked at each other and gave slight nods. "We'll help you however we can, Arumaril," Onmund whispered into the Altmer's unswollen ear. "Don't worry about it, just lay down and rest." J'zargo flashed Arumaril a smile, walking away from him as Onmund did the same, standing side-by-side with the rest of their colleagues. Arniel Gane glared at the two students, but shrugged. The college had no rules against suicide.

Colette sighed. "I do know one person..." she murmured, as if she were ashamed to admit it. "But even this level of damage may be beyond her abilities."

"Who?" Brelyna asked desperately, grabbing Colette by the shoulders.

Tolfdir walked forth, clearing his throat, causing everyone to look at him. The elderly Nord stepped forth with Arumaril's pouches and tattered robes, as well as his pack which was stuffed with unused parchment and some charcoal. "Before we make any plans to help Master Arumaril, perhaps he would like to explain the current events of us?" He stated politely, and they all stared at him dumbfoundedly.

"He's mute!" Sergius argued, crossing his arms and making a loud "harrumph!" to emphasize his point. Tolfdir arched a brow in response and shook his head, handing Arumaril his things, save for the robes.

"I think there are other ways to communicate," Tolfdir replied, smiling. "The voice of the throat is one thing, but the voice of words is another." Sergius deflated as he attempted to understand.

Arumaril, as bright as the sun, smiled at the Master Wizard appreciatively, as well as joining in the subtle insult towards Sergius's lack of observation or understanding. With much caution, the High Elf grabbed the parchment and charcoal and attempted to write neatly with slow, graceful motions.

Phinis smiled widely, for he truly liked his pupil as much as Tolfdir did. "Brightest Arch-Mage we ever had... except for Savos Aron. He was good, too." The conjurer remarked, a subtle jab towards Sergius. When Arumaril finished writing, he handed it to Tolfdir, his personal advisor. The old man read the parchment several times over, and though the handwriting was coherent, he did not believe what he was reading.

"It would seem the Arch-Mage has stumbled onto something..." Tolfdir murmured in disbelief. "Phinis, Arumaril needs your assistance immediately!"

Phinis, surprised, could not help but approach Arumaril as the High Elf reached into a particular pouch to retrieve a parchment he had recovered in the ruin. He handed it to the conjurer, who accepted it with hesitant hands. Arumaril continued to write on another piece of parchment. When he finished writing, the spellsword handed Phinis the note, as well with a blank parchment and a stick of charcoal. The wizard read it and nodded, then went back to reading the ancient parchment. He immediately fled the chambers, and all left in the chamber, save for Tolfdir, watched him leave with dubious expressions plastered onto their own faces.

Tolfdir looked at Arumaril just as Arumaril glanced up at him. "Should I tell them?" He asked. Arumaril nodded and then went back to writing on several other sheets of paper. During that time, Tolfdir told of Arumaril's exploits in the ruins and some scoffed in disbelief while others were seriously pondering on the events that had transpired. When Tolfdir finished, Arumaril had written ten different pages addressed to the others within the room. Colette read hers and nodded, not wanting to dispute with the spellsword. She sat beside him. Brelyna also received hers and nodded, standing beside Colette. Onmund and J'zargo gawked at the notes and stood where they were. Arniel, Sergius, Faralda, Nirya, and Enthir left as soon as they finished the parchment, not wanting to waste time; though Enthir smiled deviously as he left.

When they were all left alone, Tolfdir stood on the opposite side of Arumaril's bed. "Whatever you're planning, Arumaril, I doubt it will do you any good," Tolfdir said somberly, placing a gentle hand upon the High Elf's shoulder. The Altmer looked up and smiled a mischievous smile, and Tolfdir relaxed. He had seen that smile before and knew that Arumaril had something up his sleeves. "Trying to fight fate? You're a mad man!" He laughed, shaking his head. The old Nord was about to leave before Arumaril grabbed his arm in the sudden swiftness that he normally used when playing with swords. Tolfdir looked at him in surprise, and then looked sad as he saw Arumaril fight away the pain. "Fine, fine... I'll stay." He replied, using the voice of a grandfather looking over his own grandchild.

Arumaril smiled softly.

"Since we're all alone," Colette began after a moment's silence. "It's time to clean you up."

"I'll help you," Brelyna added, aiding the Breton.

Onmund cleared his throat as they went about their duties to bathe and rebandage the soon-to-be Arch-Mage. "So... who's this powerful healer? Where can we find her?" He asked, glancing at Arumaril as he spoke.

Colette was a bit hesitant to respond, and it took some time before she finally decided to speak again. "Her name is Danica. She resides in the Temple of Kynareth in Whiterun's Cloud District. However, I doubt she'll be able to help. Not that I doubt her abilities, but because Arumaril's condition is too severe and the war has taken its toll on her and her priests." She explained. Colette was rather reluctant to continue, but spoke once more. "I don't know how we would ever get her to help..."

They all remained silent for some time, but once Arumaril was dressed in bandages once more, he began to write. For a moment, there was idle chit-chat to help leviate the air, until Arumaril presented them with another message. Colette read it and then glowered at the smiling Altmer. "Are you serious?" She asked incredulously, her chin trembling. Arumaril gave a slight shrug.

"What is it, Colette?" Tolfdir asked, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

"The Arch-Mage wants _**me**_ to go with Onmund and J'zargo to Whiterun!" She exclaimed, outraged by the prepostrous idea. Tolfdir laughed and Arumaril had spasms of what should have been laughter. "It's a ludicrous idea and I will not stand for it." She stated defiantly in such a cool tone. Arumaril's visible eye sparked with flames of diabolical mischief as he began to write again. He slipped Colette a note.

In that moment, her jaw dropped and all her bluster faded away. With a gulp, she ran out of the chamber like a frightened doe, dropping the note which didn't land until several moments after the door slammed shut. Tolfdir, Onmund, J'zargo, and Brelyna stared at Arumaril as though he had just commited a heinous crime. He smiled wide and tried to appear as innocent as possible. Tolfdir arched a brow, walked around the bed and towards the parchment. He read it and laughed.

"What does it say?" Onmund asked, confused.

"I think the two of you should pack for a long trip," Tolfdir said, ignoring the question with a smile. "And make sure you take something to plug your ears with."

"What did Arch-Mage Arumaril say?" J'zargo inquired anxiously, looking at the Altmer as though the spellsword was preparing a deadly spell just for him. Arumaril simply smiled as though he did nothing wrong.

"Brelyna, dear," Tolfdir called. "I think you should tend to Arumaril. I have business I must attend to." Brelyna eyed the old Nord up and down, as though he was in cahoots with Arumaril's pranks.

"I'm not going to be caught on fire, am I?" She asked, remembering the times she experimented on Arumaril before the death of Savos Aron. Tolfdir smiled but shook his head.

"Don't worry about that. Just know that Arumaril cannot do anything on his own right now. Whenever he asks for something, do what he says." He replied in a gentle, honest tone.

Tolfdir left, taking the note with him. Onmund, J'zargo, and Brelyna all stared at Arumaril. "What did it say?" They asked in unison. Arumaril laughed his silent laugh, falling back into the bed. He winced, but the laughter ultimately drove away the agony.


End file.
